“Well,” she said, stepping through the garden gate with Julian at her shoulder, “look who decided to trespass.”
She’d traded funeral silk for casual luxury. Cashmere, perfect denim, boots more expensive than my first car.
Her ponytail was a blade.
“Breaking and entering is a felony, Eleanor. Especially when the property belongs to me.”
“This house belonged to Richard,” I said, feeling something in me finally stop bending. “A place he loved before he ever knew your name.”
“And now it belongs to me.” Her gaze flicked to the box. Calculation flashed. “What’s in that? Anything I need to report as stolen?”
“Personal effects,” Pierre said, stepping between us with a politeness that refused to retreat. “Items excluded from the estate.”
Her eyes slid to him, interest curdling into annoyance. “And you are?”
“Pierre Bowmont,” he said, dignity requiring no permission. “Richard’s father.”
For the first time since I’d met her, Amanda’s composure truly cracked.
Color drained from her face, then came back in uneven patches.
“Impossible,” she snapped. “His father is dead.”
“The man who raised me is dead,” said a voice behind her. “The man whose blood I carry is not.”
Richard Alive
Time hiccupped. The air in the garden thickened.
The box slipped in my hands, Pierre caught it without looking away from Amanda.
Richard stepped through the gate, alive and solid and impossibly here.
He looked tired and thinner, a little more lined around the eyes, but he was breathing.
Breathing.
My knees nearly gave, Roberts’s hand came to my elbow, steadying without comment.
“Richard,” I said, because there is no right word for grief turning back into a person.
He crossed the stones in three strides and pulled me into his arms.
He smelled like salt and starch and the inside of our old car on summer road trips.
I hit his chest once with the side of my fist, a small, useless protest, then gripped the back of his coat like I would never let go.
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